


The Figurehead

by enviropony



Category: Original Work
Genre: BAMF Women, F/F, Female-Centric, Pirates, Sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-13 17:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13575861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviropony/pseuds/enviropony
Summary: The first time the figurehead crawls through the window, Ilse shrieks and throws a chair at it.





	The Figurehead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/gifts).



> **Prompt:** Captain of an All-Female Pirate Ship/Sentient Female Figurehead of Said Ship  
>  -The figurehead gives a warning before an attack.  
> -How the figurehead became sentient.

The first time the figurehead crawls through the window, Ilse shrieks and throws a chair at it. Not one of her best moments. Fortunately it's the middle of the night and the third watch is half asleep, the slackers, so nobody comes to investigate. 

The figurehead shrugs off the chair, which lands on the floor with a broken leg, and says in a melodic voice, "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"What the fuck?" Ilse squeaks.

"I came to ask, is there any way you could have your crew use the quarter galleys rather than the seats of ease? It's really quite awful, hearing people relieve themselves behind you at all hours of the day."

Ilse stares. "Er, do you have any idea how many women are on this ship? There'd be a line all the way to the forecastle!"

The figurehead frowns, painted wood stretching in small but visible increments. "Well then, perhaps I could reside elsewhere from now on? Maybe somewhere astern?"

Ilse stares some more, sure now that she's dreaming. When she wakes up, the chair will be in one piece. "And how do I explain to the crew why the figurehead's suddenly perched on the poop deck?"

The figurehead appears to think about it. "Don't explain. Pretend you do not know of what they speak. Yes, I think that's a fine plan." The figurehead nods, as if they've agreed on something, and crawls back out the window.

Ilse latches the window shut, and goes to lie down in her hammock.

\- - -

The chair is not in one piece come morning.

There's a sharp knock on the cabin door, so Ilse shuffles the chair and its broken leg into a corner and calls, "Enter!"

"Er, captain, we have a-- that is-- er, you need to come topside," her first mate stumbles out. "Immediately."

Ilse glances back at the chair, then follows Genevieve with rising trepidation.

Sure enough, the figurehead is on the poop deck, perched on the starboard railing with its legs crossed modestly, looking forward with one hand shading its brightly painted eyes. 

The first mate points wordlessly. Ilse turns her back on the sight and says, as steadily as she can, "I see no problem."

"Captain!" Genevieve gestures again, very sharply. "The figurehead's moved!"

"I see no problem," Ilse repeats, then snags Genevieve's sleeve and turns her away. "And neither do you."

Genevieve stares at her. "Captain?"

"Just go with it, love," Ilse says. "Just go with it."

Genevieve blinks, sighs, and yells without breaking eye contact with Ilse, "What the hell are you all standing around for? Get back to work!"

This is met with no few incredulous exclamations, but Genevieve is well respected, so the crew more or less do as she demands. 

All day long, though, they avoid the poop deck unless absolutely necessary, and a certain degree of shoving, pushing and rock-paper-scissors precedes any venture above the weather deck. The first watch helmswoman stares straight ahead, never more than a few degrees to her right, and the second watch woman refuses to come on deck altogether. Genevieve takes the wheel herself when the third woman she orders to the helm states that she'd rather go under the lash.

\- - -

The second time the figurehead crawls through the window, Ilse throws the broken chair at it just on principle. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused?"

"Yes," the figurehead says, still with that enchanting voice, "and I'm terribly sorry, but I simply cannot go back to the bow. You shan't make me."

"Four days!" Ilse growls. "Four days of them acting like little girls scared to go out-of-doors! I can't run a ship like this."

"They'll get used to me," the figurehead says. "You'll see."

\- - -

Late on the fifth day, one of the second watch women has an ingenious idea. She takes the orange from her dinner and wedges it carefully into the figurehead's free hand. "An offering," she declares. "It hasn't hurt nobody yet, and if we keep it happy, everything should be fine."

A few of the more venturesome crew latch on to the idea, and the figurehead - the railinghead? - is soon festooned with tokens: the orange, a hat with a string to stop it blowing off her head, a ribbon for her wooden hair, a shawl for her shoulders, a pair of sturdy boots for her bare, dainty feet. 

"That should make her happy," the crew agree. "Everybody needs a good pair of boots."

The woman who sacrificed said footwear is gifted four extra slugs of rum and all the oranges she can eat.

\- - -

"I love the boots," the figurehead says upon climbing through the window for the third time.

Ilse stares blankly. "I latched that window and had it nailed shut."

"This is my ship, dear. If I need an open window, I'll get an open window," the figurehead says gently. "I told you they'd get used to me."

Ilse grudgingly acknowledges that the crew have, indeed, gotten used to the figurehead. It's been almost two weeks since it vacated its spot under the bowsprit, and the crew is acting more or less normally. There is new fruit in the figurehead's hand every day, and the crew take in her other gifts if the weather gets stormy, so she doesn't lose them to the wind.

"I was wondering," the figurehead says, sitting in Ilse's sturdiest chair, "if you had anything to read."

"To read?" Ilse echoes. "You can read?"

"And cipher, too, if you must know." The figurehead looks offended, again in increments, not unlike a puppet in a children's theatre. 

"Sorry," Ilse says reflexively.

"Yes, rather," the figurehead replies, dry as a bone. "So, do you have any books?"

Ilse does have some books tucked away in a chest in the corner. She used to have a bookshelf, but it was destroyed by a cannon ball a few months ago. She lost a lot of good books that way. "What's your pleasure, then?" she asks, resigned. "History? Fiction? Philosophy."

"Oh, let's have some philosophy, that sounds grand."

Ilse snorts. "Hobbes or Locke?"

"Which one do you recommend?"

"Start with Hobbes." She digs the book out of the chest and hands it to the figurehead, who pages through it with a surprisingly delicate touch.

"Quite a tome, this is."

"It'll keep you occupied. Now go, I want to sleep."

"Oh, but I can't read on deck," the figurehead protests. "What if I drop the book in the water, or damage it? That won't do." She settles more deeply into the chair, and is soon absorbed in the book.

Ilse stares, and stares, and stares _very pointedly_ , but the figurehead ignores her. She gives it up as a bad job, and gets in her hammock. The sound of pages turning lulls her to sleep.

\- - -

"I'm telling you, the thing goes on walkabout!" One of the crew is arguing with another. "It were gone for hours last night."

"Don't call her a thing, now, she's a fine lady!"

"Either way, she's creepin' about doing who knows what."

"Leave off, girls!" Genevieve interrupts. "Where Adele goes is her business, not yours."

"Adele?" Ilse didn't know the thing had a name.

"That's what they've taken to calling her, the ones who gave her the gifts," Genevieve explains. "Do you think she likes it?"

"How the hell would I know?" Ilse snaps, but Genevieve just gives her a mocking look, and goes on her way.

\- - -

"Oh, I like it very much," the figurehead says the next night, settled in with _Leviathan_ again. "Adele of the _Pantera_. I like it very much."

"Well, that's good, then." Ilse settles into her hammock. "Why don't you speak to any of the others? Or do you?"

"I don't," Adele replies. "I can only speak to the captain of my ship. It is a wicked curse."

"A curse?" Ilse sits up, ignoring the way the hammock wobbles. "You're cursed? Is my crew in danger?"

"No, no." Adele waves a wooden hand. " _I_ am cursed, not the ship. If you ever meet a witch, don't insult her cats, is all I can tell you."

"Cats?"

"Well, and her family, and her parentage... I had quite a mouth on me when I was human."

Ilse scrambles out of the hammock. "You were human once?" She comes to lean on the desk opposite Adele.

"Yes, some time ago," Adele confirms. "I used to have a name, and a family, all the usual human things. I know that, but I've forgotten most of it. I'm ever so grateful for a new name."

Ilse pulls another chair up to the desk and takes a seat. "That's very sad. How long has it been, do you remember?"

"No, but _Pantera_ was just built. There was some confusion about where the figurehead under the bowsprit came from, I can tell you that. She was meant to have a lioness, but when they came to install it, there I was. No amount of effort would remove me. It was all very comical, looking back now." Adele goes back to reading, and Ilse gets the sense that it was not quite as comical as she makes out.

Ilse contemplates the figurehead while she reads. Her blonde hair is carved in a queue, the gifted ribbon wrapped expertly around it. Her face is round, with fine cheekbones and bright red lips. Her hands are smooth, finely painted - they even have fingernails. Her arms are bare up to the shoulder, where a toga-like dress drapes down to protect her modesty. Ilse can't see her knees, but she knows they must be poking daintily out from beneath the short dress. The boots, Adele has not taken off even once. 

"I'm sorry you're trapped like this," Ilse says, wishing she had something more to offer. "I hope the crew have made you feel better."

"They have," Adele says with a small smile. "They have, indeed."

\- - -

"Sail! Sail to port!" the lookout cries from aloft. Ilse calls for a spyglass, then trains it on the speck of white in the distance.

"This looks promising," she mutters after a moment. "She's coming our way, more or less. Let's put on more speed, Genevieve!"

Genevieve orders more sail raised, and _Pantera_ surges ahead. As they close on the other ship, Ilse sees that it rides low in the water. Full of cargo, no doubt, but she wants a closer look before she commits to an attack.

In an hour the view is much clearer: a fat merchant ship with just a few guns, flying British colors.

"Are we going for it?" Genevieve asks.

"We are indeed, Miss LeMieux. Guns crews on standby. Prepare the vanguard."

It is a tedious wait, at least for Ilse, who can feel her pulse racing and her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. It's always like this for her, before the black is unfurled. Then, when the guns start to sound and smoke rises in the air, then she's steady, aim true, sword swift and merciless. 

So it goes this time. They tack their way toward the merchantman, neat and efficient, the solid crew she's come to know and depend on. Ilse paces restlessly, trying to walk off the nervous energy, giving orders as they're needed. When she passes Adele, she hears a whispered, "Good luck!"

The merchantman doesn't seem to suspect anything, and even starts to raise a hail before the black unfurls, snapping thunderously in the wind. Ilse can see the other crew scrambling for their guns, but her women are ready. "Gun ports open!"

"Gun ports open, aye!"

"Fire!"

 _Pantera_ rocks to the side with the force of the blasts, and smoke rises from the gun ports. Ilse can hear the muffled shouts of the crews as they reload, and the guns being rolled forward again. "Fire!"

The second volley takes out the gallant yard on the merchantman's mizzen mast, and Ilse hears a cry of, "Strike the colors!" The British flag is struck, and the merchantman's sails luff uselessly as she turns nearer to the wind, preparing to be boarded. 

"That was easy," Genevieve comments worriedly.

"Aye. Let's be careful, she's up to something."

There don't seem to be too many crew on deck, and Ilse worries about an ambush, but there's nothing for it. When _Pantera_ is near enough, her crew throw grapples over, and soon the gangplanks are in place. Still there is no resistance, only clumps of crewmen cowering in corners.

"Eyes open, my ladies," Ilse warns, pistol in one hand and sword in the other. "Don't let them get the best of you."

The vanguard sallies forth, crouched low, stalking like the cats their ship is named for. The silence on the merchantman is total, and eerie. Ilse knows it's a trap, but she can't figure out how to spring it safely. 

Genevieve leads a party to the merchantman's forecastle; another mate, Amanda, leads a group aft. 

"Ilse!" Ilse's almost over the side, aiming for midships, but the hissing voice brings her up short. "Ilse!"

She turns, and sees Adele gesturing wildly. Everyone else is focused on the merchantman, heedless of the waving figurehead. Ilse lets them past her, then turns and hustles up the steps.

"Ilse, it's a trap!" Adele warns. "The guns - I can feel it through the hull - the lower guns are pointed up!"

"Up?" And in an instant, Ilse understands. "Retreat! Retreat! Back aboard, all hands aboard!"

Her women turn to her, confused, but begin to do as she says. She waves down Genevieve and Amanda... but it's too late. Far below decks, she hears, "Fire!" and cannon balls explode out of the planking fore and aft. Amanda goes flying, blood arcing through the air, but Genevieve is still up, hustling the others back onto the _Pantera_. More cannon balls splinter the deck around her. 

Those who've made it back aboard, or never went over, are firing indiscriminatingly at the crewmen on the deck. 

The merchantman's cabin doors burst open, and men come boiling out, swords and muskets at the ready. The cannons fall silent.

"Attack!" Ilse yells, hoping that the other captain isn't cold enough to fire again now that most of his men are on deck. Her women go over the side in a wave of fury.

The air thickens with smoke and the sound of screams. Swords clash like hammers on anvils. Ilse throws herself into the fight, blasting her pistol into one man's face, bashing another with the butt before shoving it in her belt and putting both hands on the sword. She works her way through the mob with a vengeance, looking for the merchantman's captain, but she doesn't find him.

The fighting dies down eventually, as it must. The _Pantera's_ crew are victorious, though their losses are not insignificant.

"They put up a hell of a fight," Genvieve says, her hand fisted in the collar of a rough-cut, bearded bear of a man. Her sword is at his throat. "I'll give them that. This is the captain."

Ilse back-hands him instinctively. "We could have done this with no loss of lives," she tells him. "Instead, your deck is soaked in blood."

"You're a fucking pirate, and you lecture _me_ on killing," the captain snaps, incredulous. 

Ilse back-hands him again. "Nice move with the cannons. What did you hope to accomplish, destroying your ship?"

The captain growls. "Planned on taking yours, bitch!"

It wasn't a bad idea, really. He could have transferred most of his cargo, gotten himself a much better ship, and his company might still have received insurance compensation for the loss of the merchantman.

"Sorry, love, but not today." Ilse pats him on the cheek this time, and tells Genevieve, "Tie him up and put him by the mizzen mast; keep him away from his crew." 

Her own crew have secured their prisoners, and a few are working to open the cargo holds. She wonders if there will be much left to salvage. The guns below decks had been point up, but crosswise, so the stern guns shot forward, and the forward guns shot aft. They must have decimated the cargo amidship. 

She leaves them to it, and goes back to _Pantera_. Adele sits on her railing, in the same pose as always, one hand shading her eyes, the other curled loosely on her knee. There is an apple in her lap, and a garland of hay-stems from the goat pen around her neck. 

"Thank you," Ilse whispers. "You saved a lot of my crew with your warning."

Adele doesn't turn, but her lips inch up into a sad smile. "I wish I'd been able to do more. Poor Amanda. Poor Gretchen, and Hailey. It's just unbearable. They were so nice to me."

"They were good women," Ilse agrees. She will mourn later, in private. "You saved many more good women. Don't forget that." She stops, thinks about it, and asks, "Would you like to come down to my cabin tonight?"

"Yes," Adele says. "Yes, I would."

\- - -

The haul is not as bad as Ilse had feared. Sure enough, a lot of the cargo in the middle hold had been destroyed, but it was mostly Jamaican tobacco, which is abundant and cheap in _Pantera's_ home port. The rest is better - sugar, cotton, cocoa, and no small amount of coin in the ship's coffers. The women works in shifts to take it all aboard, with anyone who needs a break guarding the other crew for a spell.

They cut the merchant loose at dusk, commit their dead to the sea, and set sail for home. Despite the haul, the mood is somber, and Ilse doesn't spend much time above deck. Better to let the crew mourn as they will.

 

Adele comes through the window just before moonrise, and Ilse wonders if the crew know where she goes, by now.

"I'd offer you something to eat," she says as Adele settles into her usual seat, "but, well..." Adele doesn't eat the fruit that's left for her. Ilse's seen women trade it out new every day, and eat the old. Food doesn't go to waste on this ship.

"I thank you for the sentiment," Adele replies. "Do you suppose we could just sit, for a while? Just sit quietly and think? I need that, but I don't wish to be alone."

"Of course," Ilse says. "I think I need a bit of that, too."

The clock strikes eight, then nine, echoed outside by the evening watch. Ilse hops into her hammock, staring at the ceiling. She wonder what she'll say to Amanda's little boy and father, waiting at home. To Gretchen's sister, come to the West Indies against her better judgement to be with the last of her family. The guilt gnaws at her, but she knows there was nothing she could have done other than disengage and take everyone home empty-handed. She would have lost her ship, for that, and the respect of most of the port. Ilse had fought hard to earn _Pantera's_ captaincy, and she isn't about to let it go over guilt.

Every woman on this ship knows what she signed up for.

"You're thinking very loudly," Adele says. "Perhaps it's time to talk about it?"

"No," Ilse replies. "No, there's nothing to talk about. Not the first time I've lost crew, and it won't be the last."

"Why do you do it? Why do you pirate, if this is the cost?"

"Because there's no other way for us to be free," Ilse says. "Free to do what we want, love who we want, earn the living we deserve. Of course it comes with a risk, but so does mining, shipbuilding, honest sailing. Why do people do that? Because they need to eat. Not even for freedom, but just to put bread on the table. We're a sight better off than that."

Adele digests this. "I suppose so. What do you mean, love who you want? Were you forbidden from marrying the man you wanted, before you came to be a pirate?"

Ilse laughs. "No. It wasn't a man I wanted."

"Oh?" Adele sits up, and meets Ilse's gaze across the room. Her painted eyes are eerie, but bright and keen. "A woman, then?"

"Yes, a woman," Ilse confirms. "But she had no interest in me, and my parents had no interest in such a deviant daughter. I've been a pirate since I was sixteen."

"I'm sorry," Adele says, rising, coming to stand beside Ilse's hammock. "What an awful way to treat one's child." She leans over Ilse, fingers playing on the edge of the hammock. "What's it like? Loving a woman?"

"That's a personal question," Ilse hedges, a little surprised at Adele's boldness. Though really, should she be? The woman's been ballsy from day one. 

"I want a personal answer," Adele says. "Is it better than with a man? When you both know what the other wants?"

Ilse chuckles. "I wouldn't know, I've never had a man. And just because two people have the same parts doesn't mean they each know what the other wants."

Adele frowns. "I've never, you know? Not with a man, or a woman, and I don't suppose I ever will." She trails a finger along the hammock's edge, brushing against Ilse's arm. Ilse feel goosebumps rise in her wake.

"I don't know what to say." 

"Will you kiss me?"

Ilse sits up, the hammock rocking unsteadily beneath her, dislodging Adele's hand. "That's a little... Um..." The thing is, she doesn't want to say no. She's curious: what would it be like, to kiss a living statue? 

"I'm sorry," Adele says, eyes cast down. "I'll go." She heads for the window, boots clomping on the floor.

"Wait, wait! Please don't go." Ilse scrambles out of the hammock and hurries across the cabin. She grabs Adele's arm, and only just registers the sun-warm feeling of wood. "Don't go."

Adele turns, and the rims of her eyes are red. This is new; Ilse didn't think she could change color with her moods. At least there aren't any painted tears, yet. 

"Listen, the thing is... I've never kissed a wooden person before. I don't want to, well, take advantage. But I want to know what it's like. With someone like you."

Adele's eyes widen, and it's odd as ever, seeing paint creep like that. "So you will? Kiss me? It seems an even trade - a new experience for both of us."

"Yes, you could look at it that way, I suppose," Ilse says with a nervous laugh. "So, um, come here." Adele steps closer, and Ilse moves her hand up to her shoulder. It's still the feel of warm wood and paint, and smooth, like satin over iron. With her other hand, she cups Adele's cheek, thumb running gently over the peach-colored bump that represents the cheekbone. "Ready?"

"Mm-hmm," Adele hums, and Ilse feels it through her fingers, a gentle vibration like a carpenter bee buzzing in its home. 

Ilse pulls Adele closer, closer, until her lips touch bright red paint, so warm, almost human, but unyielding, and smooth, smooth. She presses gently, then runs her tongue over the painted seem of Adele's lips, and feels them open with an airless gasp. Her tongue in Adele's mouth explores tentatively, still finding only smooth and warm, no warmer than her skin. And here's a happy discovery: Adele has a tongue, too, moving hesitantly against Ilse's, solid, and Ilse knows what she wants. 

She pulls back just slightly, takes a breath, and seals her lips over Adele's again. Adele's hands come up to caress her back, and it feels good, so steady and secure. Ilse starts slowly, a rhythmic slide of her tongue over Adele's, trying to show her: like this. Adele begins to mimic the motion, solid wood thrusting carefully into Ilse's mouth, and oh! that feels like heaven, an invasion of the best kind. She could stand here like this all day, warmth pooling below, but this wonderful creature deserves her very best, so she draws back regretfully. "Did you like that?"

There is a heavy hint of red in the peach of Adele's cheeks, and she whispers, "Oh, yes, that was wonderful."

Ilse smiles. "Let me show you more."

-end-


End file.
